


Into Your Tight Embrace

by LittleLinor



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: In which Yuuma finds Asral right on time after the canon ending and PDA ensues





	Into Your Tight Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic reposted from tumblr

The world is still abuzz with the pressure of almost-annihilation, and Yuuma is in your arms again.

You cannot register it. There is no reason for him to be there, no  _way_  for him to be there, you made sure to keep him somewhere safe when you were handed the key to reality all those months ago; you’d thrown yourself into battle right now with the fierce joy of someone who gets to protect what they love, fighting for your world, fighting for  _his_. Keeping threats away, so that their ripples may never reach earth.

But you’d almost lost. And there he is, now, thrown back into your arms like a divine gift, appeared out of nowhere like a bright deity of victory. And your skin—your skin burns, every inch that isn’t touching him.

He’s here, and mind-shakingly solid, and you have—

It’s a sensation you’d only been vaguely aware of before now, learned from those times when the two of you had been one and the realities of a physical body had trickled into your perception.

You have been starved for him. Starved for his touch, your palms itching with the loss of his still, starved for his  _voice_ , starved for the little lurches inside your chest that almost feel like the beat of a heart you don’t have.

Your fingers clench, pressing soft ridges into his skin.

Yuuma.

You have no right to this. No right to tighten your arms like a vice to stop his warmth from leaving your body. No right to cling, to seek out the solidity, reality of his body under your fingers. No right to press your face into his hair and  _rub_ , ever so slightly, just to feel the texture shifting against your face.

You’re the one who left. You have no right to the tears making it out of your eyes.

_Yuuma_.

He’s been crying, but he’s laughing now, tear-streaked face still nestled against your neck, as securely as yours against his hair. And his arms—his arms are around your chest again, tight, firm. Trembling.

“Yuuma…”

Yours rub against his back, sneak around his waist.

He laughs.

The dragging of your arms pulls his clothes just a bit, and it’s enough for your hand to feel skin—warm, heated, even. Pulsing, still, with the beat of his blood right underneath. You let your fingertips brush, follow the hollow path of his waist, and before you can register his gasp, his arms have moved to wrap around your neck, pulling his jacket and shirt higher and giving your arm more range. And his shoulders curve, curl, his body melding itself to yours, his face against your neck—and your arm, from elbow to fingertips, is pressed against his skin, and your chest feels tight with it.

Your hand is already brushing up his side before you’ve even registered that it gripped the side of his waist.

He gasps. In another context, it would have stopped you, maybe, but the way he does it, quiet and completely devoid of resistance against your neck, only makes your touch more insistent. Your fingertips brush—light, focused, before your palm rubs in their wake, moving skin with its movements. And they caress, slowly, up his side and under his shirt, your other hand grasping the back of his neck.

“Astral…”

There’s air in his voice, like his exhales are the only thing touching his vocal cords and carrying his words, like he himself has abandoned the constant energy and tension powering his body. You tilt your wrist and pull your fingers after it, dragging as lightly as air; he inhales, sharply, and tightens his hold, and you find yourself tightening too, wrapping yourself around him, his chest, his legs—

It’s only when you hear someone cough—Shark, you realise, and at any other time you would have felt excited at the prospect of seeing him again, after the circumstances in which you had parted ways—that you notice that there are more limbs wrapped around Yuuma than you should reasonably have.

You blink. Pulling your focus back from Yuuma’s body and to your own, you feel your form and awareness spread, split, the way it had when Ninety-six had been possessing you. You look down. Slithering limbs like Ninety-six’s have wound around Yuuma’s legs, his hips, one even edging towards his waist. Restraining him almost like your chaotic counterpart had, but more tightly even, as if the possessive winding was a higher priority than any restriction to movement.

You almost shoot Shark a panicked look. By all means, Yuuma should be pushing you away. But instead, he’s relaxed his legs in your hold, as if it was  _natural_.

In fact, the only thing that seems to bother him is the sudden shift in your demeanour.

“… Astral?” he asks, looking up at you from your shoulder.

Your eyes flit to Shark—and the rest of his group—with a silent request—just a little time, just a few more moments of isolation to work this out, calm the sudden apprehension in your chest—before you lean your head back down closer to his.

“I’m sorry… is that all right? Did I scare you?”

“Huh?” He blinks, then blinks again, shoulders jerking almost imperceptibly as he seems to finally notice the situation he’s in. “O-oh.” He blushes, then, but lowers his face to your shoulder rather than pulling back. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t either. It wasn’t deliberate.”

His laugh is a little breathy.

“It’s fine.”

You tighten your arms’ hold again. As much as you know that you need to let go, talk to everyone, address the situation at hand, your body doesn’t quite want to give up on Yuuma’s contact yet.

_His hand_ , you remind yourself.  _I can still hold his hand_.

Yours presses against his ribs still, hugging him a little tight one last time.

“Yuuma.”

“Yeah?”

“Your friends are waiting for us.”

“… right,” he says, and you think his face darkened just a little more.

You let go of his legs first, pulling the newly discovered limbs in a spiral around his limbs as they retreat, then lower the hand that had been holding on to his chest, brushing it down his back and around to the other side of his waist, until you can take one of his hands.

He lets you take it, releasing your neck with his other arm as well, and you finally let go of his head, holding back the urge to press lips to his forehead before doing so.

There will be time. You have to believe that.

He squeezes your hand.

“Let’s go?” you suggest.

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Astral.”

“Yes?”

“They’re  _our_  friends.”

You smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere, 96's spirit cackes


End file.
